


Hand over my heart, gun to my head

by tjstar



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Little Less Sixteen Candles (Music Video), Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Dark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Supernatural Elements, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-11 04:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5613778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjstar/pseuds/tjstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today is a national Vampire day, or what?</p><p>The vampire-girl’s hand is still gripping Patrick’s ripped jacket, and Patrick sees the guy with sharp teeth clenches his fist to attack her. But when the blow is on the halfway of reaching the goal, the girl promptly ducks her ugly head, slipping sideways gracefully, and Patrick takes a punch in his jaw instead of his enemy.</p><p>The last thing he hears before the world sways and goes black is ‘Fuck. Sorry’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand over my heart, gun to my head

Night is a favorite time for muggers and other persons with low moral principles.

Patrick thinks of it, walking down the street and dreaming of a huge cup of hot green tea and shitty TV-shows. His surroundings look like a scene for a post-apocalyptic movie, no cars and people on Patrick’s way, even though he’s kind of used to it, living in this mostly quiet area and going home pretty late every day. But right now, all of this makes him anxious in addition to the fact that he’s not in his best mood today.

So, when Patrick gets stopped by some blonde girl dressed in tight shiny top and short leather skirt, he suspects that she is going to offer him some ‘special services’. At least, the beginning of their dialogue sounds like a cheap cliché.

“Hey, honey, I’m hungry, can you help me?” she enquires fondly, running her middle finger with the long black nail over her too-bright red lips.

Tugging his grey cabbie cap down to conceal the shadow of doubt in his eyes, Patrick feels goosebumps jumping on his skin under his denim jacket and t-shirt.

“Uh, no, I don’t think so. But if you’ll keep staying here, you will definitely find someone,” he shakes his head shyly, trying not to shudder as the girl yanks at his sleeve.

Patrick calls himself paranoid, but he’s pretty sure this girl smells like Death, well, it’s just a metaphor — he just can’t feel the smell of her perfume, and that’s what bothering him. This strange lady looks more like a plastic mannequin with white contacts on her eyes, her eyebrows are too black, and her hair looks like a weird shaggy wig with unnatural strands.

“You have to help me,” she persuades, catching the collar of Patrick’s jacket into her tight grip.

He doesn’t have the time to respond properly, because he barely manages to avoid getting an unexpected kick in his crotch, turning away, which is a terrible mistake. The girl pushes Patrick at his back, how the fuck she can be so strong if she’s half his size? It all goes to the second place as Patrick hits the ground, and one of this insane girl’s heavy martens collides with his belly, once, twice — Patrick loses any desire of asking what’s going on. Despite the probable rupture of his internal organs, he attempts to get up, but his opponent forces him to slam his shoulder blades against the asphalt and, sitting on Patrick’s thighs, strikes a blow in his face.

Her massive finger ring cuts the corner of Patrick’s mouth, and the girl hisses furiously, gritting her teeth at the sight of blood Patrick can taste on his tongue pretty well. It’s the first time he does really pay attention on her teeth, no — fangs — Patrick is pretty sure it’s not those fangs from the prank store. Mustering his energy, Patrick mentally burns the rule ‘never hit a girl’; he brings himself up to slap her across her cheek, using his weight-advantage to move the girl off his legs. 

The sudden bout of coughing suffocates him; Patrick jumps up on his feet, but his triumph interrupts by the hardest hit in his life, landed on the top of his head from behind. Patrick is just a few seconds away from fainting, but he’s still struggling with the explosion in his skull as the monster pins him against the rusty metal fence and licks his sideburn before sinking her fangs into his neck.    

“Bitch,” Patrick mutters angrily, the dense air in front of his eyes fills up with shapeless spots.

“Sfutup,” the vampire spits out, sucking the blood out of Patrick’s vein.

And he does shut up.

He’s disgusted by the way she’s doing her thing, so dirty and grossly, thin trail of blood trickles down Patrick’s collarbone, soaking his clothes and running down his chest as the creature chokes on his blood, her chin stained red. Patrick stubbornly shoves the vampire away, but, eating him, the girl probably becomes even stronger, and she twists Patrick’s wrist, grabbing his thumb and nearly breaking it. Patrick just curls his fingers around the icy cold metal rods of the fence to hold himself upright.

It’s just a shitty, shitty horror night, and now all of this looks like a parody on a low-budget movie. Patrick is about to get ready to see the people with cameras, screaming that it was just a bad joke, but these squishing sounds and fang-holes on his neck are real. His blood-loss is real too.

“Eating a l-lot will make you a f-fatass,” Patrick warns sarcastically, stuttering. His knees almost buckle due to the weakness and pain, so, when he notices a fast shadow, he thinks it’s just a hallucination.

It’s somebody dark-haired, in red hoodie, and Patrick feels ill at the thought there is too much red colour. The girl-vampire pulls away from his neck instantly, and Patrick clamps his palm over the wound, hoping it doesn’t threaten him to get a septicemia or AIDS.

“Fuck off, Wentz,” the monster-lady barks huskily, and Patrick’s mind floods up with some fuzzy childhood memories. Wentz. He definitely remembers this name.

“No,” this Wentz-kid smirks, unable to deal with his fangs.

Today is a national Vampire day, or what?

The vampire-girl’s hand is still gripping Patrick’s ripped jacket, and Patrick sees the guy with sharp teeth clenches his fist to attack her. But when the blow is on the halfway of reaching the goal, the girl promptly ducks her ugly head, slipping sideways gracefully, and Patrick takes a punch in his jaw instead of his enemy.

The last thing he hears before the world sways and goes black is ‘Fuck. Sorry’.

 

***

Regaining consciousness, Patrick feels the heavy layer of reality crashing down on him like a concrete slab; his jaw hurts like he got a hit by the hammer, Patrick isn’t even sure if he is able to open his mouth and ask for the water. He’s thirsty like never before, he still can taste the leftover flavor of blood on his bitten tongue and busted lips, and Patrick just wants to rinse his mouth out. 

He just lets out a careful sigh, but it works like a well-delivered blow in his already bruised chest, and his abdominal muscles pulsate with the mild pain where that insane girl with fangs kicked him. A sickeningly-yellow light from above bites Patrick’s closed eyelids, but he can’t crack them open. Patrick is not alone there, he hears some muffled voices, talking about him like he is just a part of the interior he can’t find the guts to look at.

“…guys, relax, I know him.”

 _‘Oh,’_ Patrick thinks.

“And that’s why you decided to come out as a fucking vampire?” the other speaker has a little lisp. “I don’t believe him.”

“Joe, this dude is just a victim. She almost ate him like a hamburger!” someone else’s voice grows louder.

Patrick can’t hold back an indistinct groan, sounding pretty much like an interactive toy with the half-dead battery. He blinks and stares at the blurry face, hanging over him — it’s the guy with a long brown hair, he’s wearing glasses, and he has a labret piercing.

“Hey?” the stranger frowns as Patrick drags himself into a sitting position slowly, the ache crawls deeper into his injured body.

Patrick hisses out through his clenched teeth as the guy taps his fingers on his bruised cheek. His jaw is not broken.

“Water… please?” Patrick manages to croak out.

He zones out for a minute and comes back to his senses again only when he feels a cold edge of the glass pressed against his lips. Oh-so-familiar vampire holds the glass of water in his a little shaky hand, and Patrick is so shocked, that he wants to push it away. But, apparently, he’s on the stage of dying from the dehydration, so he takes a big sip of the liquid and gulps it down along with the blood and dust in his throat.

“P-pete?” Patrick stammers hesitantly. He has to know how it turned out that his high school boyfriend /who was listed as a missing person/ is a vampire now.

“Yeah. You know, your blood sugar is high. Dude, you should check this out,” Pete says firmly.

“How the fuck…” Patrick starts, running his fingers over the round itchy marks on his neck, still stinging under the dried blood.

“I licked those fang-holes not to let you keep bleeding out,” Pete explains. Patrick just wants to wake up like he always does after those stupid parties at college. None of this is real.

“Very nice of you,” Patrick huffs.

Four of them are hanging out in the pretty big basement. The guy in the glasses is shirtless, there are a lot of tattoos on his arms, chest and back. The other kid, with a short curly hair, is sitting on the table with the silent radio in his hands.

“I’m Joe Trohman, it’s Andy Hurley, and yes, Pete is a vampire as you have noticed,” he smirks a little. “You are Patrick Stump, we know.”

Patrick sighs, putting an empty glass on the floor and shivering as Pete’s cold fingers curl around his swollen wrist.

“Do you want us to call a taxi for you?” Andy offers, leaning his back against the wall.

“No. I want to get fucking answers for my questions!” Patrick yells, confirming his status of a ‘short-tempered guy’. “I’ve heard a gossip that you were dead!” he glares at Pete.

“I kind of suck at dying,” Pete grins complacently.

“Oh yes. You suck very well,” Patrick scoffs with this wordplay. “You knocked me out,” he accuses his ex-friend, a former human Pete Wentz.

“Sorry about that. That bitch was nimble,” Pete smells like garlic, it makes him a little more alive than that girl who attacked Patrick in the alley.

“How long I was out?”

“Two hours.”

“I hate you,” Patrick utters, praying wordlessly ‘ _no, not now, not again’_.

Why does he always get himself into troubles?

Patrick can’t remember the last time he felt so hideously hangover. He nods, shifting on the small creaking couch and rubbing his eyes to look around the basement as much as these aching strings in his neck let him. There is an old TV covered in dust all over the screen, on the table where Joe is sitting. A thick black punching bag hangs in the corner, rolled up sleeping bags piled on the floor, and there are books almost everywhere.

Patrick even finds a tiny copy of Bible under the pillow.

So, okay. He’s not a hostage, and he can only hope these dudes are not members of the satanic cult. At least, Patrick doesn’t see pentagrams, painted with somebody’s blood. It’s okay.

“What the hell, Pete said you were dating?” Joe blurts out.

Patrick rolls his eyes.

“Do you really want to know about my relationship with Pete? Maybe it would be much better if you listened to the radio or tried to search some information which wouldn’t be _my_ private information?”

It was too rude, Patrick has to admit. But at least Joe bit his tongue.

“We’re vampire hunters,” Andy explains, crunching his knuckles. Patrick’s heart sinks somewhere to his rumbling stomach.

“Hunters who like to sit on their asses while vampires roam the city and eat people?” Patrick just can’t control his harshness, even if he’s about to get an uppercut from Andy.

“Man, we just can’t be everywhere,” Pete sulks, and Patrick suddenly finds himself slumped limply against Pete’s side. Why.

“You should be grateful that Pixie didn’t turn you,” Joe points out petulantly.

“Who?” Patrick asks blankly. “Oh, that freaky girl. Where is she, Pete?”

“She was one of Punk’s minions, and I slit her throat,” Pete shrugs imperturbably.

“Jesus,” Patrick whispers, feeling the sharp claws of fear scratching his hammering heart.

“Jesus wasn’t there,” Andy smirks.

“You weren’t either,” Patrick snaps back.

 

***

All the next hour, Patrick and his ex-boyfriend have a pretty intimate moment together while Andy and Joe go out to get some food.

The dark side of Patrick can’t believe that he found his first crush again. In the weirdest way. At least, Patrick is happy that Pete is ~~alive~~ not completely dead. Well, it’s the remixed Version of Pete Wentz, but. Not so bad. Bit by bit, the pain all over Patrick’s body stops being such a bitch, even though the bite-marks underneath the antibacterial plaster are still icky at the edges.

“Now I’m afraid of vampires,” Patrick whines.

“I’m a vampire, remember?” Pete lets out a small laughter.

“No, you are still just Pete Wentz. That guy who dumped me the day before my high school graduation,” Patrick grouches.

He thinks back of the days he had spent with Pete, it felt so natural — their first kiss like a gift for Patrick’s sixteenth Birthday, their first time when he turned seventeen. And their break-up when Patrick was eighteen-year old.

“Do you know anything about us?” Pete asks insinuatingly, his usually brown eyes sparkle up with the faint red fire for a second. Maybe, it’s just because of a crappy lighting in the basement.

“Um. Well, I watched Blade,” Patrick shrugs, pinching his sideburn nervously.

“It’s cool,” and then Pete just can’t keep his mouth shut, giving Patrick a lecture about The Vampire Theory.

Patrick is still woozy due to a lack of blood, but Pete’s calm and hoarse voice slowly begins to fill up the gaping hole in his soul.

He has been missing Pete to death. He’s ready to learn the unwritten rules of hunters.

There are two Vampire gangs — Beckett’s Dandies and McCoy’s Punk-Vampires; these two groups hate each other’s guts and don’t miss a chance to start a carnage. Dandies are graceful, stylish, they idolize Death and Afterlife, and it doesn’t make their murders more romantic and less sanguinary; Punks are way too rough, good fighters, they don’t give a shit about Vampire’s beauty, and their Master — McCoy — hates Beckett almost as much as Pete hates him. Beckett was that vampire who turned Pete, but he managed to escape from Beckett’s patronage; then, Pete united with Hunters — staying ‘at least not dead’ is the best reward for their strange activism. Pete calls himself a ‘traitor with a three-year experience’; he confesses he was forced to kill the people in his early days of being a vampire, and that’s the reason of leaving Patrick alone right before his prom. Pete was horrified by his bloodlust and constant hunger, so he had chopped off all the ties with his parents, siblings and friends. 

Vampires are his enemies now. The best way to kill a vampire is slitting their throat or shooting them with the crossbow. Sticking the stake through their chest is good too. No one likes being bleeding out. Holy water works on them like a drug mostly, and the taste of garlic helps Pete control his vampire’s form of existence.

“So, how do you… Eat?” Patrick’s throat is as tight as his chest is, he isn’t sure if he has enough bravery to stand the truth Pete is going to tell him.

“We know a dude who knows a dude who works at the blood bank, and sometimes he gives us cellophane packs with blood,” the vampire informs, the tip of his pink tongue licks his white massive fangs. “And when I don’t have a chance to get a fresh dose, I just eat rats.”

The mention of eating rats is enough to make Patrick gag and run to the trash can in the corner of the basement, covering his mouth with his palm.

 

***

“What do you mean saying you wanna help us?” Andy narrows his eyes.

“Beckett turned my boyfriend into a vampire. Do I have the right to shove an aspen stake into Beckett’s ass?” Patrick sasses.

“No one can catch Beckett,” Joe deadpans.

“But I can be the bait,” Patrick offers.

“No, you can’t,” Pete swallows anxiously.

“Don’t order me what to do,” Patrick rolls his eyes.

It’s his fifth day in the hunter’s basement, because Pete insisted on watching Patrick’s state after that bite-episode (come on, he isn’t going to be a vampire), sharing his clothes and sleeping bag with his ex. Pete kissed his neck even.

“Dude, you can’t be a hunter just because you are in love with Pete,” Joe raises his eyebrow.

It makes sense.

But then Andy goes ahead with the greatest decision called ‘you have to exercise a lot if you are gonna be a part of the team’. Patrick agrees; at least, he can open the fridge without shuddering at the sight of packs with fresh blood mixed with cartons of milk. It’s the nice thing to begin with.

Joe moans. Pete keeps mumbling something like ‘It’s not a Scooby-Doo’.

 

***

So, Patrick starts jogging in the mornings.

“Andy, wait!”

During the first mile, Patrick barely moves his feet, gasping for breath, but tattooed athlete pretends not hearing him. _‘Fuck it all,’_   Patrick stands at the side of the track and doubles over, his hands on his trembling knees, small beads of sweat running down his forehead from underneath his cabbie cap, blurring his vision.

“Man, come on. You can do it,” Andy reassures encouragingly. He isn’t even looking tired. The advantage of being skinny.

“Shit, no,” Patrick chokes out, clutching the hem of his wet t-shirt.

Grinding his teeth, Andy offers him to rest a minute so he could finish the lap later. Patrick literally tastes his helplessness.

…but he’s surprisingly good at throwing the stakes in cardboard targets, Pete even shakes Patrick’s hand, congratulating him. After burning two of their electroshock weapons, Patrick finally learns how to fix them. Then, he and Joe finally figure out what was wrong with their radio and solve this problem; now the radio is always tuned to a police radio station. They don’t have to sit in silence anymore.

The days of training are not as awful as Patrick had expected.

 

***

He is sick of constant staring at the maps and making plans.

It’s been three weeks of Patrick’s extraordinary ‘summer vacation’; he can assemble a mini-crossbow with his eyes closed now. Also, Patrick rummages through a ton of articles about accidents, just feeling where the vampires are. Joe and Andy were hunting in the neighboring state — three of the Dandies have been killed — Patrick felt so proud he gave the right coordinates.

“You are not going with us,” Pete says, sinking his fangs into his lip.

“Are you sure?” Patrick replies derisively. 

Pete was really glad when Patrick moved some of his things to hunters’ basement, but Pete still doesn’t believe that Patrick is ready for the war. Two days ago he met Dirty, their regular info-guy who told him that Dandies and Punks are planning to arrange a ‘business meeting’ aka ‘bloody massacre’ nearby the small church at the outskirt of the town. Dirty looked scared.

“Any help would be great,” Andy joins the conversation, holding an electroshock weapon in his hands and gazing at it without confidence.

“What if Dirty misinformed us?” Joe argues, sharpening the wooden stake.

“Then it just will be a night double-date,” Patrick fends off, checking the crossbow trigger.

“How the fuck could I break up with you,” Pete mutters and stumbles to the fridge to take a pack of blood.

“Everyone can make a mistake,” Patrick shrugs. “Especially you.”

They can altercate like this endlessly.

“Guys, don’t start this again,” Joe warns, shoving the stakes into one of their bags.

“Let’s go to sleep,” Andy shushes them. “Tomorrow is gonna be interesting.”

It’s almost morning, and all of the hunters have to gain strength before the Day X, before the battle.

 

***

Dry gravel rustles underneath the old van’s massive tires as the hunters drive up to the tiny white church — it’s 2 am according to Patrick’s watch, but there are no any signs of Punks and Dandies. It’s either too early or too late.

The stub of the Moon looks a little bloody on the tragically dark sky; there is no way to retire, the vampire and hunters are almost armed to the teeth: there are syringes filled up with holy water in pockets of Pete’s hoodie, two mini-crossbows on the backseat, a bunch of stakes and electroshock weapon. The atmosphere in the van is tensed; Andy repeats the details of their plan — kill as much vampires as possible and stay alive — Joe even laughs nervously.

“I bet choosing the church as a location was Beckett’s idea,” Joe informs, re-counting the stakes.

“Why? Does he like to pray before he gets killed?” Patrick jokes sourly. The way Pete tugs the sleeve of his denim jacket makes him anxious. Or maybe they all are just about to die.

“You are optimistic,” Andy sneers.

“Not really,” Patrick shrugs. He just doesn’t want to brawl before they get their asses kicked by at least twenty vampires. 

In the most inappropriate moment Pete grits his teeth into a smile and asks something, that makes Patrick scratch his sideburn almost a minute with the numb question in his eyes: ‘What. The. Fuck.’

“Can I kiss you?”

 _‘No,’_ Patrick would like to say. “Yeah,” Patrick says.

Maybe, Joe had smoked that crappy weed again, because the youngest hunter huffs mockingly, and Andy gives him a loud slap on the back of his head. It’s Patrick’s turn to smirk, but Pete’s lips are so cold. Pete’s kiss is different in compare to their previous kisses; now, Pete is stronger, weirder and clumsier — one of his too-big fangs cuts the soft skin of Patrick’s bottom lip accidentally.

“Ouch,” Patrick tilts his head to his shoulder when Pete starts sucking the injury. “No, Pete, don’t…”

He has to control the situation.

“Ugh, s-sorry,” Pete nuzzles to Patrick’s chin, thin crimson line smeared on it; for some reason Patrick thinks it is pretty hot. It hurts now, and there is a red haze in Pete’s brown eyes again, but Patrick can’t tell if he’s scared of Pete now.

“Don’t start a bloodplay there!”

Shit. Joe.

“Someone is planning to start a blood-bath there,” Pete mutters while Patrick presses his fingertips against his lip to neutralize the aftermath of Pete’s kiss.

“The fight hasn’t even started yet, but Patrick is already blee…”

Patrick rolls his eyes at the same time as Andy gives Joe a hard thump in his shoulder, finally making the garrulous guy shut up.

“Sh, hear?” Andy interrupts their ‘heart-warming’ conversation.

“Tell me it’s just cicadas,” Joe fidgets on the passenger sit.

“Yeah. Cicadas. With fangs. Driving cars,” Pete quips, shooting Joe with a death glare. “Better?”

Patrick lets out a hysterical giggle, confusing Andy. Pete’s face is still inch away from Patrick’s, but suddenly the vampire turns away, clenching his teeth.

“What? Let’s go?” Patrick offers hesitantly.

“Yes. Stay away from me during the fight. Andy or Joe will take care of you,” Pete licks his fangs, nearly slicing his tongue. “I’m gonna kill fucking Beckett.”

“Don’t get me wrong, but isn’t it our common problem?” Joe assumes.

Fucking awesome. It’s the moment they’ve been getting ready for, and now they are just bitching about some cliché shit? Patrick reaches for the crossbow, Andy is armed with another one, and Pete grabs the bag with the stakes while Joe takes the electroshock weapon and opens the van’s door carefully. Hunters slowly get out of the car, cold night air pinches their necks and ears like a nasty invisible vampire; Patrick shivers, looking at Andy — he’s calm and focused — and getting ashamed of his own reaction. Joe belatedly guesses they could mask their vehicle in the bushes, but what’s the point, if the vampires still can smell four of them.

They walk around the church cautiously, like a detachment of Special Forces; Pete wheezes, the adrenaline sets his veins on fire, Patrick literally senses his bloodlust, and for the first time he’s almost afraid of his formerly-human-friend.

“Don’t make any sudden movements,” Andy whispers, pushing Patrick against the church wall; the rough stones are humid as Patrick touches them with the back of his hand.

The squad of hunters’ sneaks closer to the noises — talking, harsh laughing and vibrations of still working engines, like it’s just a teenage-party, and there’ll be a lot of beer and junk food. Likely, the hunters are their junk food, Patrick guesses miserably. He wants to shoot the arrow as soon as he sees the the reality of the other’s side of life — there are cars, really, vampires don’t fly, don’t sleep in coffins, they are just non-romantic cold-blooded murderers with fangs and powers. It’s not just a hunt, it’s the battle for domination.

Beckett is a fucking fashion-monger; his gang looks disgustingly clean, like they got dressed for a banquet — suits and vests — not for a massacre. Punk’s Master, McCoy (or just Travie, Pete mentioned, but who cares) looks more normal — he is a very tall curly-haired guy with a bunch of casually-dressed people behind his back. The leaders of Vampire gangs stand at the opposite sides of the car, and hunters feel fairly insecure, peeking out of the corner of the church a couple feet away.

“We can’t hide for forever,” Joe resents, adjusting an electroshock gun in his hand.

“Beckett knows about us,” Pete responds gloomily, his stare glued to his foes.

Young Dandy bows and makes a welcoming gesture, waving his hand at Beckett; he and his vampires are about to play a performance for their opponents — Travie exchanges glances with a huge security-punk at his left side, waiting.

Pete growls gutturally, holding the bag with stakes; Patrick checks his crossbow quickly, Andy nods in agreement, and Joe just winks at them. Hunters make few more steps; there are a few minutes before the beginning of the final showdown, it’s a really big catch.

Smiling innocently, Beckett throws a white leather glove onto the ground.

“Let’s greet our special guests,” Beckett grits his fangs. “Pete, don’t make your friends just stay outside, it’s a bad taste!”

It’s not like four of them are surprised, but it’s still unexpectable; Pete is the first to leave this unsafe hiding-place, his friends follow him unwillingly.

“Your coat is a bad taste,” Pete replies, stepping forward and covering Patrick with his back.

“Oh, your sweet little boyfriend is here,” Beckett gasps unnaturally. “I turned you, and he’s next, what do you think?..”

Travie applauses derisively, loud claps of his palms dissect the night.

“Shut up and get out of the town, Beckett,” the leader of Punks draws their attention. “These bitches killed my girl, I’m gonna make a cocktail of their blood.”

“Are you sure you have enough powers, McCoy?” Beckett crosses his arms over his chest.

“Go get a private room for your two,” Joe mumbles.

Beckett freaks out immediately, the shadow of his feigned kindness fades away.

“If you give me your weapons, you’ll die without a torture,” he says calmly.

“Do you wanna fuck yourself with the stake?” Joe has obvious troubles with biting his tongue in time.

Apparently, Punks just get bored of their babbling; one of the vampires just makes a dash for them, almost knocking Joe off his feet, but Patrick’s hard fist flies into the vampire’s temple, and then Pete welcomes him with his fangs. Patrick hasn’t thought that Pete is going to drink his blood, he falls into into a stupor; Andy shoves Patrick away as Beckett gives the go-ahead, and three Dandies head in hunters’ direction.

“Hey, hey, listen,” Andy squeezes Patrick’s shoulder, shaking him. “Pete just tries to protect us this way, okay?”

“Fuck, stop it,” Joe barks, holding the gun and breathing heavily.

Pete just sets his vampire nature free, Patrick thinks blankly.

The blood gushes out of the vampire’s bitten neck, Joe grabs Patrick by the collar of his jacket and drags him away; Joe uses his electroshock weapon, leaving a couple of vampires lifeless with a pink foam on their lips.

Pete jumps to his worst enemy, but Beckett just laughs, snapping his fingers; two Dandies with a long metal rods attack Pete, he hisses as they start hitting his back, and Patrick turns to help his friend, but his path is already blocked by the bunch of Punks. One of them rises his hands up, there are little yellow sparkles over his palms; terrified, Patrick finally pulls the trigger, but he’s still shaking, so he misses the target. Andy rushes to the lightening vampire; he almost loses his weapon, getting a burn on his hand and swearing loudly, but then Pete just appears from nowhere and sticks the stake through the vampire’s chest, pushing him in the road dust. Then, Patrick shoots somebody’s arm, lets fly few arrows and dodges the blow on his chin, hearing the gnashing teeth of a vampire with a holy water syringe in his neck.

His friends really cover him, what the luck.

Patrick takes the penultimate arrow out of the quiver, and Pete hurls another stake, the sharpened tip carves the shoulder of the vampire who snatched Patrick’s hand.

Pete trusts his intuition blindly. He craves to reach Beckett, but his gang surrounds the hunters like guard dogs; Andy kills three of them shooting the crossbow, and Patrick still can’t aim properly, he’s disoriented and already exhausted. One of the vampires hits Joe’s leg with the abandoned stake before dying from Andy’s arrow while Pete jumps on the Dandy-vampire, crawling to Patrick from the rear. Joe moans, pressing his palm to the deep round wound and dropping his gun, Patrick bends over and picks it up; he lets Joe lean onto his shoulder, hauling the hurt hunter away from the dangerous position. There is a pile of dead vampires on their way.

Cursing and bleeding, Joe tries to run to the other end of the road, there is another part of the battle; he emerges out of his trance and notices Travie with deep fang-holes disfiguring his neck — hunters have no clue who killed him, but Patrick is sure it wasn’t Pete.

Andy throws the crossbow away, completely out of the arrows; Pete fights against the five or six vampires; he clenches his bloodied fists, Patrick pulls out the arrow, and it goes through the one of the Dandies leg, spraying his white pants crimson. The eyes of injured vampire are frighteningly hollow; Andy grabs the metal rod from the asphalt and demonstrates his fighting style to everyone, his movements and blows brought to automaticity.

The rod stabs vampire’s heart, and his corpse slumps onto the ground.

From the corner of his eye Patrick catches Beckett — he sits on the car’s hood; the sweat dribbles from the tip of Patrick’s nose, the crossbow is too heavy in his hands. Beckett looks strangely unprotected, only one vampire stands near him — that Brendon kid, almost his heir or maybe just a slave; Patrick can’t tell the difference now, he distracts — Pete takes punches from Punk-goons, Andy tries to cover his back with a metal bar in his hands. 

Killing Beckett is Pete’s only mission, he is about to use a chance, but vampires work on pinning him down to the ground, the other pair assails Andy.

“This city is my playground,” Beckett says, and Brendon stretches his lips into a smirk.

Joe just takes one single step forward, but Brendon considers it like a life-threatening attempt and waves his outstretched hand at Joe’s side; the hunter flies ten feet backwards, slams his back against the side of a car, leaves a dent on it and falls on the gravel. It’s like an invisible thick shield around Brendon and Beckett; Pete manages to throw the stake but it freezes in the air; Pete just screams ‘NO’ before getting beaten hard all over his ribs with the metal rod — Andy got attacked and lost it.

It takes only few seconds before vampires of different kinds rush to Joe’s motionless body.

They are hissing like snakes with their teeth clicking, one of the Punks bites the arm of a lanky Dandy-guy furiously. They can’t decide who will be the first to take a chunk of Joe’s flesh. The vampires look at unconscious hunter like he’s just a dead meat, their delicious food; Patrick barely catches his breath and runs, completely forgetting that he’s not the best runner ever. Speeding up, he jumps and shoots the last arrow. With the loud exhale which sounds clearly like ‘fuck’, Patrick lands heavily onto the Punk with his mouth open — this guy was getting ready to sink his fangs into Joe’s neck. Hitting the asphalt, Patrick only notices a vampire with the arrow in his bleeding neck — nice shot, he admits; but Patrick is their new target, hot spit falls onto his face from the fangs of his enemies — four or five, Patrick just can’t focus on it when some Dandy snatches his only one /already useless/ weapon.

He hopes Joe is unappealing for them now.

Patrick is much more interesting, he struggles, hitting the vampire with the crossbow, but the other creatures keep kicking him until  the grey veil spreads all over his vision. Reluctantly, Patrick untangles his fingers from the crossbow stock, only to protect his nose from the hard blow striking from above. Patrick blocks their fist with his forearms, his muscles ache from the exhausting tension as the hunter rolls onto his side to avoid getting constant sucker-punches in his stomach.

He has to shake Joe awake, but the monsters don’t let him move, clutching his arms and dragging him away from his friend no matter how much Patrick refuses; he jerks his left hand, and abnormally sharp claws of a girl-Dandy-vampire dissect the denim sleeve along with the patch of his skin underneath. Patrick roars as she digs her nails deeper, twisting her fingers with such a pleasure and bloodthirsty smile.

Patrick is waiting for their fangs submissively, asking himself why do Punks and Dandies just clobber him instead of drinking his blood already.

The only one inviolable person — the Priest — walks around the street like an Angel of Death, putting coins on the closed eyes of dead vampires.

Patrick can taste the salty smell of his own blood-loss, he starts to think he’s paralyzed when this torture suddenly ends after the well-aimed liver punch. There is an extensive sticky-red puddle on the ground, and someone’s lifeless body with the stake through their chest along with the white bowler hat lying nearby. Other vampire-corpses have deep bites on their necks, Patrick winces at this non-aesthetic picture.

“Jesus,” a very familiar shaky voice whispers.

“Jesus wasn’t there,” Patrick snarls, trying to get up.

He wants to smile as he recognizes Joe, nodding at his friend, but at the moment his injured arm bothers him pretty bad. He only takes a look at these three bloody lacerations, soaking through the tatters of his ripped sleeve, fuck, he’s going to burn this damned denim jacket down.

“It was pretty dumb,” Joe utters, spitting out a viscous lump of red saliva. “But thank you.”

“ _Thank you_ for appreciating my help,” Patrick replies sarcastically, rubbing a fresh hematoma on his cheekbone with his good hand. “I said I wanna be the bait.”

Before Joe parts his lips to blurt out something, Patrick hears a soothing phrase-

“Next time I’ll be the bait.”

Even though he’s going to pass out in the most pathetic way, Patrick throws his throbbing head back only to see Andy and Pete, both stained with dirt, beaten up and bleeding even, but _they don’t look like dying_. Beckett is gone, just vanished, along with Brendon; there are only ugly bodies of murdered vampires from both gangs. The war is not over.

“Fuck, Patrick, your hand,” Pete crouches down next to his /ex/ boyfriend, almost sticking his sensitive nose to Patrick’s wet filthy sleeve.

Pete’s jagged bangs fall all over his eyes, his knuckles bruised from the cruel battling, and there are bite-marks on his neck.

“If you help me get up, I’m gonna kiss you,” Patrick grumbles. “I’m kinda tired of being Buffy.”

He guesses he has to kiss Andy for a company; he bends over and helps Pete to stand their friend up, holding him under the armpits. Joe stays aside, looking pretty much like he’s going to vomit.

“Too much corpses,” Joe squeezes the words out of his throat.

“The Priest will clean the mess,” Pete pronounces darkly. “He’s a vampire as well.”

“But it’s just a gossip,” Andy points out.

“No, it’s not,” the vampire cuts him off. “He just can keep his mouth shut.”

Fortunately, Patrick is still able to walk by himself. Hanging over Andy’s strong shoulder, Joe hobbles with the limp, clamping the wound on his right thigh — getting stabbed with the stake in vampire’s arms was such a sick irony, but it all could be much worse. Wincing at his every single step, Pete occasionally throws terrified glances at Patrick, and Patrick isn’t sure where he has to press his cuts to stop bleeding out. Andy got a couple of burns from that insane electroshock-vampire, his nose is bleeding, and t-shirt and jeans are ripped everywhere.

They get into their van successfully, packing their survived weapons; Patrick turns away and sees the Priest staring at the brightening sky; it’s almost dawn, and it’s the biggest mystery what he’s going to do with the victims. Pete assumes the Priest is going to burn all the corpses in the secret underground crematorium.

Patrick thinks he will never eat grilled meat again.

“We are alive,” he states the fact uncertainly.

“Not at all,” Pete huffs skeptically. “Don’t move,” he warns as he takes Patrick’s hand, rolling up the sleeve and licking the wounds carefully, his breathing burns the open bloody cuts. Knocking his cap over his eyes, Patrick just can’t look at it, the pain is too sharp to endure, but somehow Pete’s tongue helps to dull it.

“Wanna do the same with my thigh? Do you like splinters?” Joe smirks tiredly, stretching his leg out.

Andy brings his hand up to give Joe a cuff on the nape habitually, but then he realizes their youngest friend has had enough.

He starts the engine wordlessly, driving up the van in their headquarter’s direction.

 

***

Joe sprawled across the sleeping bag, only in his blood-stained t-shirt and boxers, his thigh is bandaged tightly, and his knees look like a red-black-blue mess. Wincing and sputtering, he presses the cloth permeated with vodka to the one of the countless scrapes on his legs.

Patrick sits on the floor, Pete occasionally offers him a fresh dose of alcohol for anesthesia. There are the shadows of thick black marks, littering Pete’s shirtless torso. Fucking bloodsuckers.

“Ready?” Andy’s voice sounds concentrated as the hunter yanks up Patrick’s torn sleeve to take a look at his tormented left hand.

“Yeah... I j-just haven’t thought of ‘old enough to drink’ at this point,” Patrick concludes groggily, the strong stench of sweat and whiskey fills up his lungs. “Hooooly shit!” he yells, as Andy pours the alcohol all over his slashed forearm, getting ready to stitch up the deepest of these ragged vertical cuts.

It’s the worst part of everything.

Patrick is grateful that Pete got him nearly blackout drunk.

Pete clamps his calloused hand over the younger guy’s lips; he moans wordlessly while Andy sticks the suture needle under the inflamed skin. Patrick’s ears clogged with his own blood, he roars something incoherent as his friend tugs the thread through the tiny hole and punctures another one, causing more damage.

His brain is ready to burst out of the flashbacks, his throat is sore from the unreleased screams.

“F-faster…” Patrick begs as Pete takes his palm off his face, letting him to catch his shaky breath.

One more shot. Patrick can’t drink anymore.

“Stop wriggling,” Andy orders. His fingers are red in these medical rubber gloves, he just can’t do the wrong movement, saving Patrick’s injured hand from the amputation. “Shit, I can’t. Pete, hold him still.”

“Hold on,” Pete places his hands on Patrick’s wrist and the crook of his elbow, pinning his outstretched arm down to the small wooden table.

Patrick can’t help but feels betrayed.

“Fuck. I feel sick,” Joe hiccups woozily, burying his pale face in his dirty hands.

“Wait a minute,” Andy scowls, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

The sharp tip of the needle catches a thin layer of the skin again, shrinking the wound; Patrick shoves his fist into his mouth, chewing his skinned knuckles. Unable to get out of Pete’s grip, he mentally counts the stitches. _Two_. Glossy red lines hypnotize him.  _Three_. He can’t control the tremor and gives up on holding the screams back. _Four_. Patrick is on the verge of hyperventilating; Joe curses in his corner.

 _Five_. 

Andy bites off the end of the thread and takes a long sip of the leftover whiskey, going to deal with his burns as soon as he helps his friends. He’s just a professional.

“Good job,” Pete encourages as Patrick falls face forward to his bare chest. He’s so damn tired.

“We have a lot of work to do,” Joe reminds moodily. “Beckett still exists.”

“Thank you very much, I forgot about it,” Andy quips, turning to the youngest hunter. “Who the hell did teach you to bandage the wounds _this way_?!” he gasps, rushing to Joe who can’t even find a witty answer.

While Andy is too busy dealing with Joe’s problems to pay attention on anything else, Pete gives Patrick a quick kiss on his bruised jawline. Pete’s lips are split open, still sticky with his own and somebody else’s blood, it’s even more disgusting than Patrick’s inevitable hangover. Maybe, Patrick is just a regular masochist, but he likes this side of life. He isn’t going to quit. Until.

There is a full wagon of changes in Pete’s behavior, but anyway, he’s not like those monsters they killed. Hot spots of violent bruises burn the pads of Patrick’s fingers as he touches the vampire’s protruding ribs.

“You are my best friend,” Patrick screws his bloodshot eyes shut.

“Still?” Pete takes human’s injured forearm, the moan of pain comes out of the back of his throat.

Pete Wentz always gets him into troubles.

“Yeah,” Patrick nods, feeling the reality slowly floats away. “Still.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, i kinda changed canon, sorry; also, feel free to tell me about any grammar mistakes /english is not my 1st language/


End file.
